


Paper Graveyards

by lightweights



Series: one hand in mine [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, cosette is my favourite if you didn't already guess, enjolas/cosette friendship is the most beautiful think ever and i cannot control myself, feat. grantaire's books, ps enjolras doesn't mean to be horrible he is just terrible with feelings don't judge him, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightweights/pseuds/lightweights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire had once whispered “I am wild” in response to Enjolras’ “be serious”, his voice rustling and his breath hot against the hollow behind Enjolras’ ear and he looks wild now, untamed, and it scares Enjolras that he has managed to push Grantaire this far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Graveyards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [revolutionaries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionaries/gifts), [with_the_monsters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/with_the_monsters/gifts).



Enjolras and Grantaire argue—they always have done, they always will, and this is a simple fact that was accepted by both of them long ago. Grantaire finds too much enjoyment in slipping beneath Enjolras’ calm exterior, beneath his very skin, to push all his buttons and infuriate him and Enjolras always, always, always allows Grantaire to bother him. And then there’s the difference in beliefs, the simple fact that Enjolras wants to change society, to make the world a better place and he believes he can do it, whilst Grantaire, quite simply, could not care less adding more friction to an already volatile relationship. 

This just means that arguments are inevitable and are nasty but, as Combeferre points out, they always make up—always. Grantaire, unable to stay away, slinks back to the Musain and keeps his mouth shut for a meeting or two, sometimes comes along to rallies and protests to offer support with a small smile at Enjolras, one that promises he’s not going to blacken the day with cynicism. Or Enjolras will offer Grantaire a ride home, buy him a drink when they’re in the cafe, or sometimes just seek him out and sit next to him so that they can work in companionable silence, Grantaire flipping through his books and Enjolras working on his laptop. They simply gravitate towards each other, a little like they don’t know how else to be, and if Enjolras claims that Grantaire is a nuisance no one believes him anymore. 

But the argument that they are currently having is different, the kind that is so damaging that the very _wrongness_ of it seems to be alive in the air and words traded are blood red with anger. Grantaire’s cheeks are flushed, not from alcohol but from shouting at Enjolras in the middle of the street, and Courfeyrac and Éponine are lingering close to him, Éponine’s hand reaching to grasp Grantaire’s wrist. In fact, all of their friends are surrounding them, Cosette close to Enjolras’ side and Combeferre hovering between Enjolras and Grantaire, ready to step in. 

It’s ridiculous and Enjolras can’t even remember how this started, all he knows is that it has deteriorated very quickly and that it’s ugly, very ugly. Grantaire’s mouth has become a tight line, his eyes empty of the warmth Enjolras is used to seeing in them, and he’s actually close to sober right now—he hadn’t been happy about that, either, being particularly short tempered throughout the meeting but Enjolras hadn’t thought too much of it. Enjolras just hadn’t _thought_ and Grantaire was irritable and this couldn’t have ended any other way, really. 

“Jesus, Apollo,” Grantaire snaps, scowling at Enjolras. “I am just as capable as everyone else as helping out, I can be trusted, you know.”

(Oh, yes, they’re currently on the issue of the fact Grantaire does nothing in the group and Grantaire has somehow caused this to descend into a discussion about trust and Enjolras is furious and he doesn't like where this is going, not at all, but he can't stop himself). 

“Oh for Gods sake,why don’t you just go and pour a bottle of Vodka down your throat?” Enjolras demands in response and everyone suddenly goes very still. He can see Éponine’s grip on Grantaire tighten, her nails sinking into the flesh to hold Grantaire back but Grantaire isn’t moving. He is rooted to the spot, staring at Enjolras with a very blank expression but Enjolras can’t stop, be wants a reaction and it’s petty but he doesn’t know what else to do so he continues with his tirade. “You contribute nothing apart from inane and drunken arguments, you don’t do _anything_. I have no time for you and your cynicism.”

If Enjolras had been less angry, he might have considered that this is the second time in as many months he has told Grantaire that he doesn’t want him around but this thought doesn’t cross his mind until Grantaire stumbles backwards as though he has been hit. Even Cosette is looking at Enjolras with surprise, eyebrows furrowed and something akin to disappointment on her face before her gaze flickers away. 

But Enjolras is already turning back to Grantaire. Grantaire’s eyes are wide and he suddenly looks very lost, terribly young with uncertainty altering and softening his features as he stares at Enjolras for a long moment. Courfeyrac, the one person who Enjolras can rely on to lighten these situations and ease the tension, is glowering at Enjolras with a hand gripping Grantaire’s jacket and Enjolras feels sick, suddenly seized by a desire to make a smile spread across Grantaire’s cheeks again. 

It's as Éponine sends Enjolras a withering glare that Enjolras realises he has really crossed a line—and not so much as crossed it, but flung himself right across. 

“R—“ he begins, regret weighting the words down and he moves forward but Grantaire jerks back, yanking himself free of Éponine and Courfeyrac’s hold and shaking his head firmly. 

“Don’t,” Grantaire says in a voice that Enjolras has never heard before and never wants to hear again. It’s hollow, empty, and that’s worse than upset because Enjolras can’t possibly begin to understand what Grantaire is thinking. “Don’t, Enjolras, don’t.”

Without another word, Grantaire turns and walks away, in the opposite direction of his apartment because he clearly doesn’t want to have to pass by Enjolras. Courfeyrac is already moving after him, calling Grantaire’s name so loudly that is echoes but Grantaire doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn. 

“I knew you could be cruel, Enjolras, but that was beyond vindictive,” Éponine tells him, her expression tight and her voice climbing in volume with barely contained fury in every word. “You fucking _know_ how he feels about you.”

Éponine then turns sharply on her heel, black hair swinging as she follows Grantaire and Courfeyrac. Enjolras remains frozen, unable to think of anything but the fact Grantaire had called him Enjolras—not Apollo, or E or any of the nicknames they usually use. And his name had sounded so distant coming from Grantaire’s mouth, so foreign, like Grantaire has constructed a barricade between them. 

“Wait—“ he begins but Cosette is shaking her head, pulling him back as his remaining friends mutter awkwardly and shuffle their feet.

“I think he needs some time,” Cosette says quietly as she pulls her purse from her handbag with one hand, extracting fifty Euros and passing the notes to Bahorel and then raising her voice. “Go and get pizza, boys. We’ll be along in a bit.” 

Because all of them are a little bit scared of Cosette, Bahorel takes the money without argument and they disperse. Marius hovers for a moment, kissing Cosette gently and telling her that they’re going to head to Musichetta’s before leaving Enjolras and Cosette in the street, the artificial streetlamps illuminating Cosette in an orange light. 

Cosette turns to Enjolras as he pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one with fumbling fingers. Neither of them speak for a moment and Enjolras knows Cosette thinks he has overstepped a boundary—fuck, Enjolras himself knows he has overstepped a boundary—but he and Cosette have been best friends since they were three years old and she won’t judge him. They never have passed judgement on each other and they won’t start now. 

“I didn’t mean to push him that far,” Enjolras finally says once Cosette has sat down on a bench and then he follows her lead, their shoulders brushing together as Cosette reaches out, plucking his cigarette from his fingers and taking a drag. She tips her head back to breathe the smoke out and Enjolras fiddles with the buttons of his shirt because he wants to do something with his hands. 

“I know, honey,” Cosette says to the sky, handing him the cigarette back. “But you did and he has every right to be upset with you. Even if he was an idiot, too. You were both _stupid_.”

Her words are softened by the hand that smooths over his arm but Enjolras glares at her anyway. Cosette simply offers him a sad smile in return, sliding an arm fully around him and leaning her head against his. He wants to snap at her but Cosette has always been the one person who can exercise any kind of control over Enjolras and he knows that she’s right so he closes his eyes and they share the cigarette in silence. There is nothing to say—Enjolras knows what she is thinking already, he can see it in her eyes and he has to agree with her.

Once they have finished the cigarette they walk slowly in the direction of Enjolras’ flat, their arms linked together and Enjolras thinks that this is what it must be like to have a twin, to have someone so close to you that they understand how you feel just as well as you do. Cosette squeezes his arm gently as they walk, her presence more soothing than anything else because Enjolras is fiercely independent but he will always depend on Cosette. 

“How long do I need to give him?” Enjolras finally asks her, speaking for the first time in nearly half an hour. 

Cosette sighs softly, turning to face him and tucking her hands into the pockets of her black lace coat. They are stood outside of Enjolras’ front door by the point, facing each other, and Enjolras knows that Cosette is sacrificing valuable time with Marius to sort him out. He wants to tell her that he appreciates it but she knows, she always knows. She also knows that he would do the same thing for him in a heartbeat. 

“As long as he needs,” Cosette tells him seriously. “And if he doesn’t want to talk to you again, you need to respect that. You hurt him, Enjolras, and he needs to have time to sort himself out.” 

Enjolras huffs because patience isn’t his strong suit but then he’s hugging Cosette so tightly that it’s hard to breathe. Cosette just hugs him back, allowing Enjolras to place a kiss on her cheek and whisper _thank you_ against her skin as she rubs circles against his skin and Enjolras battles to swallow down his guilt. 

“Do you want me to stay?” she asks him, arms looped tightly around his waist. 

“No,” Enjolras replies immediately. He will never admit that he does want Cosette to stay with him because Cosette is always sacrificing herself for the sake of her friends, especially him and Éponine, and Enjolras doesn’t want to drag her down more than he already has.

But Cosette is Cosette and knows that when Enjolras says no he means yes and that’s why the end up on Enjolras’ living room floor, Cosette mixing cocktails with the television playing in the background. Enjolras is on his fifth cigarette, half watching the television programme and half watching Cosette fiddling around with paper umbrellas with his mind focussed solely on Grantaire. 

“You know, Enjolras,” Cosette cuts into his thoughts, speaking over her shoulder and her expression serious. “I know you’re not the best with emotions and feelings and stuff but you have to realise that you don’t just think of Grantaire as a friend.” 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything to this and they eventually move to the couch, curling beside each other with their heads pressed together.

“I don’t understand how I feel,” he mutters just before sleep washes over him and Cosette sleepily mumbles something about how everyone else does. 

Enjolras doesn’t understand what she means by that but he is certain that he will see Grantaire tomorrow and he can apologise and everything will be okay. It will be another argument they forget about and that will fade into the darkness, and they will be fine. 

:::

Grantaire doesn’t come to lunch at Jehan’s, or the meeting at the Musain, and then he doesn’t even turn up at Bahorel’s for drinks.  
When Bahorel is loudly complaining about losing his best drinking partner, it hits Enjolras that things are very, very far from okay. 

:::

Enjolras tries to give Grantaire time and space but two days pass and he feels like he is going out of his mind. He is heavy with guilt, unable to stop thinking of the way Grantaire had fucking _looked_ at him and powerless to stop the guilt from overriding him, flooding him completely. Cosette is, as per usual, a fucking godsend and she and Combeferre spend a lot of time forcing coffee down Enjolras’ throat because he’s barely sleeping. 

(Not that he’s admitting that, because _this business isn’t bothering me at all why are we talking about it, where are the flyers?_ )

Combeferre says that he’s stubborn, Cosette says that he’s insufferable and Courfeyrac has been absent in Enjolras' life since the argument. Enjolras understands. Lines have been drawn, sides have been taken, and Éponine and Courfeyrac are clearly on Grantaire’s. Enjolras wouldn't have expected anything else. 

After two days, Enjolras has had enough and spends ten minutes outside Grantaire’s flat with his finger pressed to the doorbell but no one answers. Grantaire isn’t answering his calls, either, and when, in a moment of desperation, Enjolras goes to one of Grantaire’s lectures with his favourite Professor, Grantaire isn’t present. He has just _gone_ , avoiding life at all costs. 

Another two days—the longest time Grantaire and Enjolras have ever gone without speaking—and Éponine brings Gavroche to the Musain because he needs help with some kind of homework and _Courf and I fucking suck at Maths_. Courfeyrac tags along, too, with the intention of seeing Jehan but he is deliberately not talking to Enjolras unless forced to and Éponine is colder than ice. Everyone but Grantaire is present, squashed around their favourite table, and it’s just so wrong and Enjolras can’t stop searching for dark, tangled curls, and he’s had enough.

That is why he steals Courfeyrac’s keys from his pocket—immoral, Enjolras knows, but he’ll return them—and slips away under the pretence of going to the library. 

It’s all very easy once the decision has been made. Enjolras drives to Grantaire and Courfeyrac’s apartment and only lingers for a few minutes before unlocking the door and shuffling into the hallway. He thinks that, maybe, Grantaire will be cross but he realises that he needs to apologise, that Grantaire needs to listen, and that he can’t go on because days without Grantaire are longer, harder, and significantly less colourful. 

The apartment is dark. Grantaire’s jacket is thrown over the back of an armchair and there are too-many empty bottles on the coffee table, clustered together, but nothing else is out of place. Enjolras pauses for a moment before treading the familiar path to Grantaire’s room. He has only been inside once before but he has passed by many times, usually to bang on the door and shout for Grantaire to _come on, we’re going to be late_.

Another pause, this one shorter, and then Enjolras eases the door open. 

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire’s room looks like it has seen the apocalypse. His books are everywhere—heaped on the desk, hiding the bed, strewn across the floor so thickly that none of the green carpet is visible and is it even possible to have so many books in such a small space? They all lie in varying states of degradation, the room a mass grave of paper and print and a man in the middle of the devastation with black ink staining his hands and despair in his eyes. 

(Grantaire had once whispered “I am wild” in response to Enjolras’ “be serious”, his voice rustling and his breath hot against the hollow behind Enjolras’ ear and he looks wild now, untamed, and it scares Enjolras that he has managed to push Grantaire this far).

An _oh_ is torn from Enjolras’ throat because this is uncharacteristic for Grantaire and then he is kicking his shoes off to step into the room, unwilling to damage the books anymore than they already are been because these books are Grantaire’s life. His socked feet slide on the glossy cover of a paperback— _The Fault in our Stars_ , which Grantaire had termed as _fantastic in terms of plot but the prose left me a bit empty_ and Enjolras wonders how he can remember this—but he simply moves as carefully as he can until he’s close enough to Grantaire to see the empty bottle cradled in his arms. 

Grantaire just bows his head, his fingers tight around the neck of the glass, and Enjolras can’t see his face anymore. One of Grantaire’s favourite methods when it comes to punishing Enjolras is to drink himself to oblivion but even at his drunkest Grantaire has never been this erratic in his actions, usually containing himself to a running sarcastic commentary which is calculated to make Enjolras’ blood boil. He’s good at that, infuriating Enjolras—so good it could be a skill, an example of how, even when he is out of his mind, Grantaire is intelligent. But he has never done this—torn down the one thing he loves, destroyed something he cares about. 

“’Taire,” Enjolras says, completely failing at sounding commanding as he kneels down in front of Grantaire, _Crime and Punishment_ an uncomfortable rest under his left knee. “Your books?” 

Enjolras’ palms are itching to feel Grantaire, to cup his chin and tip Grantaire’s face upwards so that Enjolras can at least try to read his expression but he restrains himself and occupies his hands in stacking some of the books around them. _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , some kind of Holocaust literature, _Tess of the D’Urbervilles_ , the fifth Harry Potter, a collection of Donne, and _The Lighthouse_ form a neat pile and expose a piece of floor where Enjolras can sit and it’s then that Grantaire speaks—or, more accurately, slurs.

“I was angry,” he mutters, his words directed more to the bottle but Enjolras can hear the accusation in them, can practically feel Grantaire’s desire for Enjolras to leave. “Why are you here? Because you made it pretty fucking clear—“

Here, Grantaire cuts himself off and sways sideways. Enjolras takes advantage of the moment and yanks the bottle out of Grantaire’s grasp, placing it on the desk and ignoring Grantaire’s protest. 

“You made it pretty fucking clear,” Grantaire continues, his eyes shut and his shoulder against the desk, propping himself up. “That I’m fucking useless so please let me have something, Apollo. Let me pretend I’m worth something before you take it away.” 

Enjolras doesn’t stop himself then, reaching out to tilt Grantaire’s face upwards because he needs Grantaire to look him in the eye. Grantaire doesn’t want to but he can’t stop Enjolras’ firm hands because he’s drunk, the aroma of whiskey clinging to him like a second skin, and Enjolras feels nauseous at the way Grantaire has set his shoulders, bracing himself for another onslaught of verbal blows. Enjolras knows that he can be cruel but he didn’t mean to cut Grantaire so deeply—if he had known, he would never have said anything, would have sulked and gotten over whatever the fuck they were arguing about, would have saved a lot of upset. 

“You’re not useless,” Enjolras tells him, his fingers pressing into Grantaire’s jawbone with such force that Enjolras has to remind himself to ease the hold, lest he bruise Grantaire’s milk-pale skin. “I didn’t mean it. I was angry, I just snapped but you’re not useless. _Jesus_ , Grantaire, you’re so far from useless it’s fucking laughable.” 

Grantaire shudders and he’s looking up at Enjolras with hope shining brightly from somewhere deep within, the desire to be told he’s worth something absolutely blazing. Enjolras doesn’t even care that he’s babbling, telling Grantaire things he has never told him before and would never normally tell him, but it’s justifiable because Grantaire doesn’t realise how important he is. He doesn’t realise that Enjolras needs him like a desert needs water and yeah, that’s a really shitty description but it’s Jehan who strings words and metaphors together, Enjolras prefers facts. 

A small smile breaks out, tugging at the corners of Grantaire’s lips, before something shutters and Grantaire’s face is closed off once more as he looks up at Enjolras, his eyes impossibly blue in contrast to the dark curls that twist from beneath his beanie. When Enjolras loosens his hold, Grantaire loses what little balance he has and lurches forward, ending up with his head in Enjolras’ lap. He stays very still there, heavy against Enjolras’ thigh, but Enjolras just moves his legs to accommodate him and ignores any kind of boundaries as he sweeps Grantaire’s hat away and pushes his fingers through the dark tangles. It might be forward and Enjolras might not know exactly why he’s doing it but it feels right and Grantaire isn’t protesting, just breathing with his breath scorching hot through the denim of Enjolras’ jeans. 

They’ve never given much thought to the boundaries between _friendship_ and _something else_ after all, and Enjolras sees no reason to start now. 

“You don’t even trust me to deliver leaflets,” Grantaire says bitterly after a few minutes as Enjolras lightly scrapes his nails down the other man’s scalp. “The most basic of all jobs and I can’t even do that.”

Enjolras pauses at this because it’s not that he doesn’t trust Grantaire with jobs within the group but he didn’t think Grantaire would want to. After all Grantaire is cynical, vehement in his belief that an egalitarian society is unobtainable, convinced that they won’t be able to change anything and Enjolras will always wonder why he comes to anything but will never question it because he doesn’t want Grantaire to leave. That’s why he doesn’t try and force the cause on Grantaire, why he never asks him to promote something Grantaire doesn’t believe in. He’s just glad for his presence—not something he would admit to, but he really is—but, apparently, all of this means something deeper to Grantaire.

“I’ve never asked you to do anything like that, no,” Enjolras says, unable to tear his hands away from Grantaire’s fucking _curls_ because they spill across his fingers like ink, dripping down to his wrist where they tickle the paper-thin flesh that stretches across his veins. “Mainly because I didn’t think you would want to be promoting something you don’t believe in but also because I like having you nearby to argue with everything I say.”

Grantaire mutters something that Enjolras doesn’t catch because it’s whispered into the seam of his jeans but then one of Grantaire’s ink-stained hands is sliding across Enjolras leg, settling so that it is curled around his knee cap and Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s touch searing his very flesh. 

“It’s not because I don’t trust you,” Enjolras continues, fighting to keep talking because his entire world has shrunk to that hand with its bitten nails and callused fingers. “Because I do. I really, really do, Grantaire.” 

Enjolras knows he would be saying none of this if it wasn’t for the inexplicable fear that Grantaire will just walk out of his life forever because he’s had enough of the constant disagreements. And Enjolras doesn’t know what all these feelings mean—the ones that threaten to overflow and the ones what confuse him and keep him awake at night—and that was why he was content to hold them close to his chest until he could understand something about them. But he doesn’t care if it means Grantaire understands that he’s valued, that he’s necessary, that he’s not useless because a Grantaire-sized hole in his life is too horrible to contemplate.

And then Grantaire is suddenly trying to sit up. It’s a battle from the start, alcohol pooling dead weight in his limbs and Enjolras can see the sway to his body as Grantaire kneels before him—above him, really, because Enjolras is leaning back against the bed, missing the feeling of another person being so close. No, not another person—the feeling of _Grantaire_ being plastered to him, the feeling of rightness that had warmed him as Grantaire breathed him in, the feeling of his fingers being deep in Grantaire’s curls. 

“Do you mean that?” Grantaire is asking, his words all running together because of the alcohol that saturates his blood, his voice closer to _broken_ than breaking. 

They are nose to nose, Grantaire’s breath fanning across Enjolras’ face and Enjolras has to stop himself from leaning even closer to taste the whisky that will still cling to Grantaire’s lips. He sits, his knees drawn slightly up so that Grantaire has something to hold him up—his arms are shaking from the effort, Enjolras can see that—and waits, counting his own shallow breaths. 

“Of course I do,” he says when he can speak and Grantaire collapses back down, apparently unable to keep himself upright for any longer. 

"I'm sorry, you know," Grantaire finally tells him, looking up at him. His face is pale and his hair is a mess but sincerity looks very, very good on him, Enjolras thinks. "I know I was deliberately pushing you the other day. It was stupid."

"It's already forgotten," Enjolras assures him without any thought because yes, Grantaire was an idiot but they're both terrible when it comes to fighting with each other.

Grantaire mutters something about the room spinning and then his weight is back on Enjolras’ legs, heavy yet oddly reassuring and strangely comfortable, his head resting just left of Enjolras’ crotch. Enjolras wants to tell Grantaire more because he knows how Grantaire’s mind works with all of its legendary self doubt but he doesn’t think he can. He doesn’t know where to begin because Grantaire is Grantaire, the mess of limbs and untamed hair that challenges every principle Enjolras has whilst pushing him to do that little bit more, shine that little bit brighter, work to convince people to save the world a little bit harder.

It’s then that he realises, something finally clicking to place in his mind. He realises that he doesn’t want to be Grantaire’s friend, he wants to kiss him, to fold his bones to shape his, to slot their bodies so closely together that he can lose himself in the strong sweeping lines of Grantaire’s form. He wants to hold his hand and make him coffee and wake up to his face in the mornings, to press feet between Grantaire’s thighs when he’s cold, to tell Grantaire the things he wants to tell him and no one else. He wants to bicker with Grantaire over trivial things and then end it all by kissing him and tangling fingers together. And Grantaire in his lap just makes understand that a little more because Enjolras finally gets why the world is unbalanced when Grantaire isn’t there. 

“I think that is the nicest thing you have ever said to me,” Grantaire says, turning his head so that he is talking into Enjolras’ stomach and his hands resting at Enjolras’ hips. 

Enjolras just hums in response because Grantaire’s body is blanketing his and Grantaire seems to have forgiven him completely—and that’s probably unhealthy but who is Enjolras to complain?—and he’s just content to sit on top of Grantaire’s personal library and be. 

And also to wonder what, exactly, he’s meant to do now because Enjolras has never been great at relationships and emotions. 

“Will you read to me?” Grantaire asks a few minutes later and Enjolras can feel his lips forming the words because there is one cotton barrier between them, everything else having been torn down, and something about Grantaire’s mouth against his midriff is fucking fantastic even with a tee-shirt in the way. 

Enjolras feels like he should point out reading will not help the headache he is sure to be building in Grantaire’s skull and, besides that, they are sitting on top of Grantaire’s books but then Grantaire is pushing a black book into his hand and looking up at him with pleading eyes. There is a sigh against Enjolras’ naval; heat blooms and Enjolras’ fingers close around the book. 

_Selected Poetry_ by Goethe is not something Enjolras would have expected Grantaire to have but the book bears all the signs of being one of his favourites. The cover is faded and battered, the spine is completely useless, and Enjolras can see how there are inky fingerprints inside and annotations next to some of the poems. 

“Page two-hundred and twenty-seven,” Grantaire says quietly as Enjolras turns the pages with care, worried he might tear one out by accident because the paper is fragile from being so well-read and he suspects Grantaire’s books have been through enough. 

“Dem aufgehenden Vollmonde,” Enjolras reads and his efforts are rewarded by Grantaire’s snort. He smacks Grantaire lightly with the book but Grantaire is laughing with his face pushed into Enjolras’ torso and this all feels so easy, Grantaire chuckling as he lies in Enjolras’ lap and Enjolras is grinning down at him, despite himself. 

“I fucking hope you never need to use German,” Grantaire tells him, the old fondness back in his voice and Enjolras feels like he can breathe again, even though he hadn’t realised the knot of worry in his stomach had still been there. “The translation is on the opposite page, you muppet.” 

Enjolras begins to read again and he doesn’t hear so much as feels Grantaire’s hum because of how Grantaire’s sternum is now pressed against Enjolras’ inner thigh and the vibrations carry right through Enjolras as he threads his fingers back into Grantaire’s hair.

Poetry has always been something associated with Jehan, who bracelets original couplets around his wrists in dark ink and tattoos stanzas onto his friends’ skin when he runs out of space on his own body. Grantaire is novels, thick tomes tucked into his backpack and slimmer volumes in pockets. He is foreign authors from times long ago and novels from today with shaky plots and questionable dialogues. He is an eclectic mix, crying over young adult stories that he’s technically too old for and lamenting on novels that have controversy wrapped up in their paragraphs. Enjolras had never considered that he could be interested by poetry but Grantaire is clearly happy—Enjolras can see it in his face as he listens, his eyes closed—and so Enjolras continues to read and Grantaire’s hands move across the expanse of Enjolras’ torso. Enjolras makes no move to stop this as they halt and curve around Enjolras’ rib cage, thumbs tracing letters across the xylophone of his bones, almost burning their mark into the skin. Enjolras wonders if it’s supposed to feel like this, like he would readily shape his own bones to Grantaire’s just to bring them closer and, more importantly, _why_ he feels like this. 

If the pressure to succeed is heavy around his neck, a manacle and chains, Grantaire alleviates it and allows Enjolras time to let the tension to uncoil from the bottom of his belly. 

When Grantaire shifts and drapes himself fully over Enjolras’ lower half, Enjolras welcomes the weight because he wants Grantaire to fill all of his spaces, unmovable, anchored to his side. He wants nothing more than this but he can’t say that, not out loud, and so he reads poetry to Grantaire and wishes he knew what to say that would make Grantaire stay with him forever. 

(But for once he doesn’t have the words and so the memory of tentative fingers becoming bold at his waist and a head resting in his lap will have to do).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments and feedback and kudos and I'm just so incredibly grateful just thank you and I hope you like this 
> 
> And big, massive thank yous for Kaye, who saw this at its very beginning and encouraged me to keep going, and for Ellie, who cheered me up splendidly yesterday, I love you both


End file.
